Whither my dither? And from whence? It comes from focus, from obsession, from lack of limits on myself. Grabbing issues, tick-like, never to let go until they're drained dry. Resembling mad scientists in old movies, eyes-a-poppin'! Discussions become arguments; paying bills sends me on trips into financial rabbit-holes where accountants fear to tread. My mind, honed razor-sharp cuts anything in its path. Too bad if it's me, too bad if it's you. Something seems near- guaranteed to blow. Comfort or habit? Can't tell, but it promises familiarity, which brings confidence (deserved or not).
66/100 “One hundred poems in one hundred days!” (but my sense of time is fluid) two-thirds to being there
Unretouched photo from an hour after dawn, August 8th, 2026, in northern Spokane, WA, where three wildfires burned uncontrollably.
Ninety-nine: French bread hot, water steaming for each loaf's crusty, chewy finish. Traveling inside cool comfort, knowing this cannot last forever. "Hot enough for you," quips farmers market vendor, blue eyes twinkling beneath weather-lined, browned forehead supporting white buzz cut. "Yes, but barely," my clever retort. He laughs, takes my money, knowing which one of us will soon be walking across hot, radiating blacktop back to his car.
65/100 “One hundred poems in one hundred days!” (but my sense of time is fluid)
Wow, got home from first choir practice of the season and forgot to post my already-written poem. At least this gives me a chance to spruce it up.
Restroom sign at Spokane Indians’ Ballpark. August 2026.
Fool me at all
Fool myself, shame on me. Listen! Listen to my Muse who infuses spirit, wrenching right from wrong, meaning out of nonsense. That still, small voice yields more than all those shouts banging around my mind. Pray, pray for each moment, each small touch to break through every moment every day.
Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterfly, likely female, on Anise Hyssop. September 2026.
One of my new favorite plants is the anise hyssop. Anise hyssop grows to about four feet with long flower clusters at the end of each upward branch. These clusters each have what looks like about 100 flowers. The large one in the photo above has approximately 50 clusters. (I had to count them for a pollinator study I participated in.) The weight and height of the branches causes them to bend a bit, making them look like a flower arrangement to me. The flowers don’t bloom all at the same time, but over the past two seasons ours has peaked in late June through mid-July, after which some of the flowers begin to do whatever propagation chores the plant must do.
Same bee, different photo from July’s. Note more flower clusters in the background. July 2026.
The hyssop attracts many pollinators. I participated in the Great Southeastern Pollinator Count two weeks ago, choosing this plant because it had so many flowers. I counted mostly Eastern bumblebees and a little wasp about a half inch in length. Others included a very small bee, ants, another kind of insect I’ll just call a beetle, and the biggest dang wasp I’ve ever seen! I looked it up, and I’m sure I saw a Great Black Wasp. I’ve seen three different maximum lengths ranging from 1.4-2.0 inches. I swear it was about 2.0 inches in length. Absolutely huge.
Yesterday I saw our lone species of hummingbird here in the SE United States, a ruby-throated one, also checking out the hyssop. It seemed to prefer the similar-looking flowers of the obedient plant quite near me. And both yesterday and today the several hyssop plants in our yard have been caught the attention of Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterflies.
When I began the census count, I lamented to my wife that most of flowers have long passed their peak. I expected to find few pollinators compared to June-July. The purple coneflowers have lost all their petals; the spiky centers remains, attracting goldfinches to the seeds, not pollinators to the pollen. Similarly, the black-eyed Susans and Indian blanket flowers have mostly disappeared.
But strangely (to me), the hyssop seems to have popped out more flowers! Over the past three days bees, most of the Eastern carpenter variety, have been madly jumping on the hyssop flower clusters. From a distance they’re visible by watching the ends of the stalks bouncing up and down in a non-existent breeze. And then there’s the apparent delight some butterflies have taken in finding yet more flowers on the hyssops.
We need to keep trying, keep putting out those flowers of attraction. It makes a difference. Perhaps “carpenter bees” aren’t your thing. Perhaps you dislike benign-but-huge “wasps”. No matter. Our purpose is to flower. Let the rest take care of itself.
Oregon Coast, a picture of equanimity. August 2026.
Life hits lulls where everything seems "Okay"— Not "Good" not "Bad" just beautiful balance, something which seems more normal. Those highs match lows for extreme stress on emotions, on health, on mental well-being. "Give me equanimity or give me breath!" Thank you, Patrick. Always thought you were too wound up, but now I see you're just like all of us: wanting to keep our heads down for fear of getting whacked in some cosmic Whack-a-Mole game without rhyme, reason.
Old folks get “procedures”…lots and lots of ’em. Is it worse to prepare for where cameras should never go, or wait for someone else’s? (Said “someone” adding two hours to the wait because the fine print for drinking liquids addressed certain drugs which said “someone” might have been taking.)
Was this grass gone to seed when I entered the building? August 2026.
Waiting [.....] Never my strong suit, worse when it's unanticipated. Need to blame someone. Hope we're at fault; hope we're not. Then again...what did you plan to do today? Nothing Much. What ARE you doing? See? If two roads lead to the same place, how can one be better? (However: could that dude perhaps lower that video's volume?)
A haiku today, the second of slight illness (on top of all the parts of me which don’t seem to want to work right). It’s OK. I think it just started raining, and I know I’ll mostly be just chillin’ tomorrow when my wife has one of those procedures all of us old people get….
Benny on lap. April 2023.
man with cat on lap pet each other—happiness. nubbins on his pants
Almost every day, he said, my glass seemed more than half full, but a fly would dance on top. When we came into home, winging away from sunset, I saw one cloud-like nuclear explosion. My trip's symbolic, beautiful resolution.
Different voices have defined “found” poems differently. Here, I started with the opening line of a poem I drafted over a dozen years ago, then used random web pages to suggest a few words from which would spring the next line. I let whatever revealed itself in my creative half exist without immediately squashing it, merely shaping it, translating it from my interior language-without-words to a poor imitation in English. My Editor insisted on punching meaning into it, which I allowed. At the end I decided it needed to come full circle, thus lending meaning (I hope) to the final lines. In a way, this process worked similarly to something I’m getting ready to post (non-poem) when time allows.
We wear patchwork clothes, stitched by sadness not to have seen snow leopards through our blizzarding genesis. Inspired by writings we don't understand, we personalize them to make everything obtain meaning where none existed. Welcome to your mission: to drive home meaning to others while pathetically struggling to find your own, exhibiting your confidence which betrays your lack of understanding. "the mic is yours, Ken," as if he thinks I'm important. Games, games fill cracks left when motive, meaning dried up. More valuable than playing? Being. Staying within where we find nothingness imbuing everything-ness. Boldly facing it without doing, comfortable in this. Yet, in here we wear patchwork clothes, satisfied they're stitched by sadness.
